The Smugglers' Return
by bemj11
Summary: Years ago, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson were involved in a smuggling case that was never solved. Now Gregson has discovered the key to bringing the old gang of smugglers down. That is, if they can stay alive long enough to tell someone about it!
1. Chapter 1

Holmes was sulking.

There was really no other way to put it. He was definitely sulking.

That alone would not have bothered me. I had seen the best and worst of Holmes' moods, and though they could be a trial, they were part of the man.

Nor was this particular foul mood anywhere as bad as some I had witnessed. This was mild, nothing to concern oneself over.

Or so it would have been, were it not for the reason he was sulking.

He was sulking because Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade had not been available when he had called upon Scotland Yard today, and consequently he had had to work with Hopkins and Bradstreet instead, which I had thought was a rather nice turn of events, given that he got along better with those two anyway. Holmes could barely look at Gregson or Lestrade without insulting one of them some days, and it was usually Lestrade who caught most of it. Having Bradstreet and Hopkins, who usually managed to avoid most of Holmes' criticims, along had made things go by so much more smoothly.

But now Holmes was sulking, wondering where the two could have gotten themselves off to, and where they could be going, and what was so important that it had called them away from the Yard.

I wondered if he realized he sounded like a boy who became angry when the two little boys he liked to pick on suddenly weren't there and realized he actually liked them.

Probably not.

There was a knock on the door that was more of a thud, really. I waited, hoping, as late as it was that it was a customer with a case that would interest Holmes. The distraction would be good for him.

Apparently it was not meant for either of us, for we were left undisturbed in the sitting room. I looked over at Holmes' misery ridden form, and wished for something to keep him occupied.

I started at the sound of a second thud; this time the sound came from Holmes' bedroom rather than from downstairs. Holmes and I were across the room in seconds and carefully entering his room. Nothing was out of place.

I started again as something hit the window. Holmes and I went to it, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw the hand.

A second later I realized it was attached to an arm, and that it was waving almost frantically. I threw open the window without thinking, and stared as someone scrambled through the window and into Holmes' bedroom.

Holmes, more wary than I, had seized my cane as we left the sitting room and now used it to prod the panting figure that was now lying in his bedroom floor.

"Down!" The intruder snapped, and I didn't hesitate to obey the command. Neither did Holmes, I noticed. There was something about the man's tone of voice that said you disobeyed him at your own peril.

Our visitor pulled the shades shut, and scrambled to his feet. He peeked out, once, then scrambled from Holmes' bedroom to our sitting room.

Warily we followed the shadow into the other room.

Lestrade was closing the shades and retreating rather quickly across the room. I stared.

"Lestrade?" Holmes, too, was at a loss for words. Neither one of us spoke as the man stood there, slightly out of breath.

"You're bleeding." I finally said. It was all I could think of to say.

His gaze strayed to his arm, which was indeed bleeding. "Oh." He panted. "Think someone stabbed me."

"Did you climb up the side of the house?" Holmes finally asked.

"Yes. Hope you don't mind." Lestrade replied, as if it were a perfectly normal course of action.

"Call Inspector Lestrade, Holmes. Someone's been sneaking into our house." I joked, and Holmes chuckled. Even Lestrade cracked a short-lived smile.

"Need to get Gregson." Lestrade darted out of the sitting room and back into Holmes' bedroom. He peeked out the window. "Be at the back door in ten?" He gasped.

"Certainly." Holmes said as Lestrade pulled up the window and climbed through it. I watched him go, amazingly surefooted even in the night. Then I closed the window and locked it.

"It looks like we might find out why Gregson and Lestrade were busy this morning after all." I said with a great deal more lightness than I felt. Something about this felt terribly familiar.

But Holmes was already like a man reborn as we retreated from his room.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten minutes later we were at the back door. There was a light knock, and Holmes pulled it open. Gregson and Lestrade nearly toppled him over as they darted inside.

Lestrade was somehow supporting Gregson, I realized as Holmes quickly closed the door. Lestrade was gasping, taking in deep lungfuls of air as if he could not get enough of it. "Come on, Inspector." He gasped at the man he was all but dragging, and he headed back towards the perceived safety of our rooms.

Holmes stepped forward, and relieved Lestrade of his burden. The sudden change in weight left the smaller man unsteady for a moment, but he shook his head and followed Holmes.

"Set him down." Lestrade gasped once we were again in the sitting room. Gregson flopped uselessly into the chair and didn't stir. He simply closed his eyes.

"S'fine." Lestrade assured me as he tried to regain some measure of control over his breathing. "Been sick, getting over it, but trip wore him out." I hoped, as I did a quick check over Gregson anyway, that Lestrade wasn't going to revert to a spoken version of his shorthand. Bradstreet had been witness to such a thing once; he claimed it had given him nightmares for a week.

"What trip?" I asked. Gregson did seem to be recovering from a recent illness, and he did appear to be immensely worn out. One eye opened while I was examining the man, but he must have decided I wasn't worth arguing with, because it promptly closed again. Not that Gregson had ever been one to argue with a doctor, but still.

"Fro' the docks." Lestrade was having a hard time catching his breath, and no wonder, if he had dragged Gregson that far. "E was sick. Fine now, jus' canna talk."

Satisfied with Gregson's condition, I turned to the other Inspector. "Lestrade, you're a mess." I said. "Sit down, and let me look at your arm."

"Harder t' breathe that way." Lestrade said with a shake of his head, and I wondered if it were more than exertion that was causing his shortness of breath. "Do watcha want, tho."

That, at least, was something. I helped him out of his jacket, and eyed the rip in his sleeve. It would be easier just to tear the sleeve than to roll it up. Lestrade followed my gaze, and nodded. "Go 'head." He said.

I tore his sleeve further open. Someone had indeed stabbed the Inspector, and I wondered that he had still been able to climb in spite of the injury. I set to cleaning it; Lestrade hardly seemed to notice. His breath caught as I stitched it up, but otherwise he ignored it.

"Let me see your ribs." I said as I finished bandaging his arm. He flinched, confirming my suspicions, but nodded agreeably. I unbuttoned the Inspector's shirt.

His chest, abdomen, and sides were a mass of bruises. "What on earth?" I exclaimed. No wonder he was having trouble breathing.

"E didn't like me much." Lestrade managed half an explanation. But his ribs weren't broken, thank heavens, and he would be able to breathe better after he had rested a while.

I let him remain standing, and turned my attention to Holmes, who was apparently just as puzzled as I was to see the two Inspectors here under these conditions.

I looked back over at Gregson, who was resting peacefully, and Lestrade, who was-

Leaning. He was trying to keep his weight off his left foot. I wondered how I had missed that before, but just then Lestrade caught me looking and shifted his weight to distribute it evenly again. His breath hitched as he did it, but otherwise it didn't show that he was uncomfortable.

"I saw that." I told him, and he shook his head.

"S'nothing." He gasped.

"Sure it is." I said. "Sit down."

"Throws my balance off." He mumbled. "Take the weight off, it's steadier."

"Codswollop." I said. "Sit down." He managed to glare at me for all of three seconds, then limped-actually limped- over to the couch.

I sat beside him and had his shoe of in less than a minute. He winced as I did it, but didn't fight me. "Is this your twisted foot?" I asked, admittedly a little curious. I had never known it to make a difference to the man before.

He nodded, still focusing primarily on breathing.

"Does it often cause you pain?" I asked. He shook his head, apparently not in the mood to argue with me.

"Less somebody decides t' give me grief over it, no." He said.

"Decides to give you grief?" I asked. Now what did that mean?

"Someone notices, thinks they're clever, thinks they'll mess with it." He was still being unhelpfully vague. "Most times it's still fine, people are idiots. This time was a big fellow though, think he was trying to crush it with his bare hands."

I stared. "Why on earth would he want to attempt something like that?" I demanded. Lestrade shrugged.

"I didn't have an answer first time, sure don't have one this time." His breathing was starting to even out, I noted.

"What-?"

"E's the fellow what mangled my foot in the first place." Lestrade finally gave up trying to be vague. "I wasn't born this way."

"So you've met this fellow before." I said carefully. "And he broke your foot with his bare hands."

Lestrade nodded. "It healed, crooked, but doesn't really hurt all that much most of the time. I tend to forget it's there."

I wondered if there had been nerve damage done then, or if Lestrade had just been lucky. I also wondered what his idea of something hurting much was. I didn't ask.

I could see where it had been broken before, and I could see some bruising from where the trick had been attempted a second time. Something tried to catch my attention, but Lestrade had pulled his foot away before I could decide what.

"Nothing broken this time." I offered. "But it's going to be sore."

"I know." He agreed. "Bad enough without me dragging Gregson 'cross the city or climbing up to Mr. 'olmes' window."

"You need some rest." I said. "Can you afford to stay here for the night?"

"Gregson needs the rest anyway." Lestrade replied. "He can't afford not to. And we need your help."

"Will you be able to manage on the couch?" I asked. He nodded.

"That's fine. Thanks."

"We'll talk in the morning, then."

With Gregson and Lestrade taken care of, I turned my attention back to Holmes, who was studying the two Inspectors intently. He would get no sleep tonight.

"You need rest too, Watson." He said into the silence. "Whatever they are running from, they are safe from it tonight."

"You're keeping watch?" I inquired. Holmes nodded.

"I would not sleep tonight anyway."

"Goodnight then, Holmes."

"Goodnight, Watson."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I probably forgot to mention this earlier, sorry, but this story takes place after Holmes' 'return from the dead' but before my other story _The Detective from the States_. For a more complete listing of my Sherlock Holmes stories and the order in which they occur, be sure to check out my profile.

* * *

I awakened in the night to the sound of a cry in the darkness. I shot up, half awake and listening for sounds of battle, and tumbled out of bed.

The cry sounded again, from downstairs. I set off as quickly as I could without sacrificing too much of that needed quiet, guessing that the sound came from the sitting room.

I was right, but when I reached the room there were no foes, no one to fight, only Holmes in his armchair with a helpless look on his face. It was one of the few times in his life when the man did not know what to do.

He was watching Lestrade, who was moving restlessly in his sleep. The Inspector's expression, or what little I could see of it in the dark, was troubled.

He cried out; it had been he who had awakened me. The cry died out in a soft moan, almost a whimper, and he struggled against whatever shadows haunted him.

He somehow cut off a scream before it began, and jerked violently. I watched helplessly as the abrupt motion threw him into the floor.

Lestrade hit the floor with a thud, and a groan, and lay still. He had not been awakened by his fall or the impact.

We watched, but Lestrade remained still. He did not cry out again.

* * *

It was late when Gregson stirred the next morning, and although still worn, the Inspector was at least more alert and aware of his surroundings, and a bit more like his normal self.

Lestrade, for his part, seemed content to remain unconscious on the floor. I wondered if we should move him back to the couch.

Gregson sighed as he caught sight of the other Inspector on the floor, and pulled himself out of the chair. He knelt wearily by the Inspector, and shook him gently.

Lestrade's reaction was instantaneous.

He lashed out wildly, still not quite awake, sheer desperation in his movements. Gregson didn't hesitate, but threw himself down, pinning the smaller man to the floor and covering his mouth with a hand.

Lestrade instantly stilled. His eyes opened, and he stared up for a few seconds before his eyes darted over to Gregson's face.

Something passed between the two of them, and Gregson sat up. Lestrade followed suit wearily.

"You too?" Lestrade asked the other Inspector. Gregson nodded, and the two slowly climbed to their feet. Lestrade looked around. "Where's Mr. Holmes?" He asked, as if completely unaware of what had just happened, and began looking for his shoes. He found them, and had his right on in a jiffy.

"He stepped out for a bit." I said, watching as the Inspector completely unlaced his left shoe before putting it on. "He should be back by breakfast." I had asked Mrs. Hudson if she would mind bringing the meal up later than usual, for the sake of our guests. Our marvelous landlady had agreed without hesitation.

He grimaced as he relaced his shoe and tied it. "Good."

Holmes returned as Mrs. Hudson arrived with the morning meal, and watched as Lestrade didn't bother trying to decline the hospitality and tucked into his plate eagerly. Gregson seemed more interested in the coffee that had come with it.

Abruptly Lestrade realized we were still waiting for an explanation. He set aside his fork and exchanged glances with Gregson.

"What do you know about the smuggling raid of '76, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade finally asked.

Holmes was quiet for a moment, recalling the details. "It was a disaster, if I recall correctly." He finally said. "Seven constables killed, two more injured, one left disabled. Nearly ruined the two Inspectors involved. Their identities were kept quiet-" This last was an aside to me. "But they were actually captured during the raid. A second raid organized the following day might have taken care of the gang, if the Inspectors hadn't been found . Those involved decided the priority was to get the Inspectors out alive rather than to catch the gang."

"Wouldn't have mattered anyway." Lestrade commented. "The only members left were there to cover the tracks of the rest of them."

"That _was_ taken into consideration, as well as the fact that the first raid would have gone badly no matter who had been in charge, and probably could have gone a lot worse." Holmes was going for his pipe as he spoke. "But it's common knowledge that the gang still operates in London from time to time, though nobody knows where or who is behind it."

Lestrade and Gregson exchanged another look. "Gregson knows who it is." Lestrade said.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson, etc. do not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade and Gregson exchanged another look. "Gregson knows who it is." Lestrade said.

"How?" I asked, when I remembered to. Holmes looked intrigued.

"He ran right into one of the gang. And they recognized him." Lestrade explained. Gregson nodded. "They knocked him out and locked him in the cellar, but not before he caught a glimpse of the man."

"Just a minute, Lestrade." Holmes interrupted. "What do you mean, 'they recognized him?'"

Lestrade sighed. "They recognized him as one of the Inspectors involved in the raid." He clarified. "_We_ were the Inspectors." He waited a moment for Holmes to say something else, and when my friend did not, he continued. "That was three days ago. We started looking for him the following evening, and last night I was looking into rumors that he had last been seen around the docks and was recognized myself."

"He wasn't expecting a fight, I suppose." Lestrade mused. "Anyway, I was slapping the darbies on him and he was begging and pleading and trying to bribe me into letting him loose, and finally said he knew where my 'partner' was.

"He said he'd tell me where he was if I let him go. I loosened the cuffs, and he pointed me in the right direction. I handcuffed him to a lamp-post and left him there. He _might_ have gotten loose." Lestrade didn't look too concerned over whether the man might still be there or not.

"And then you went after Gregson." Holmes said. Lestrade nodded.

"I found him in the cellar of that rundown tavern at the docks; you know which one I mean." Holmes nodded, and Lestrade continued. "He was shivering; apparently he'd been there long enough for that coughhe was getting over to act up again. His throat was so hoarse he couldn't say a word." I waited for Lestrade make a comment about that being a nice change, but it never happened.

"He borrowed my notebook while I worked at the rope tying his ankles, scribbled that he knew who was in charge of the gang. They found me as I finished getting him loose, and I nearly joined him in captivity. They left that big fellow behind to 'guard' us, and he got too close. I took advantage of the situation, and made use of the knife he was carrying to get us loose. Then we made a break for it."

"Do you believe you were followed here?" Holmes asked after a moment. Lestrade shook his head.

"The fact that we made it through the night unmolested says we weren't." He replied. "But they'll be looking for us." He scowled. "And Gregson can't testify to a thing until his throat's better."

"Surely he could write…"Holmes trailed off as we both noticed that I had missed something in the dark last night. Gregson's hands were both badly bruised and swollen, and I scolded myself for not noticing them sooner.

"They saw the notebook." Holmes guessed, and I jumped up to get a better look at the Inspector's hands. Gregson nodded in response to Holmes' question.

"Then he didn't tell you _who_ it was that was in charge of the gang." Holmes surmised, and Gregson shook his head wearily.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the gang do not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade finished eating and pulled out a notebook while I did what I could for Inspector Gregson's hands. He neatly ripped out two sheets of paper and started scribbling.

"Do you have someone who could send messages for me?" He asked Holmes.

"I can." I offered. "I have a few errands I need to run anyway."

"Thank you." Lestrade handed over two sheets of paper. One bore Lestrade's illegible shorthand, the other-was even worse. "If you could give this one to Hopkins and the other to my wife, I would be greatly obliged." He said.

I nodded. "Certainly, Inspector."

Elisabeth took one look at the illegible note and beckoned me inside. "Can I give you a few things for him, since he plans to be away from home for the time being?"

I nodded. "What was that?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. Elisabeth Lestrade was not as reluctant as her husband to admit to personal details.

"A code." She smiled, guessing what I was asking about. "One we made up when we were younger, after one of his cases had nearly torn the two of us apart." Her thoughts were years away as she rifled through the cabinets. "That was when I first faced the fact that my husband was a Yarder first and that everything else came second. Not that he didn't try." She added absently.

I didn't ask her to explain. I didn't need to know.

"He spent the night at Baker Street?" She asked. "How did he sleep?"

"He seemed troubled." I confirmed, and she added something else to the small package she was preparing. She finished wrapping the package, and offered it to me. "Thank you, John." She said. Then she added a second, smaller package. "And that's for you." She informed me as she escorted me out the door. "Take care."

"Good morning." I replied.

Hopkins read the second note, and his eyes went wide. He looked at me. "Tell him-actually, I'll just write it down."

He had out his own notebook and lightning quick was writing a response. He held out the finished message apologetically. "I know you aren't a messenger service, Doctor, but would you mind giving him this when you see him again? Sorry."

"Not at all." I said, taking the letter. "It only makes sense, after all." He returned my smile, and excused himself.

I watched the Inspector stride off purposefully. The young lad had grown into a fine man, one of the bright spots of the Yard.

I hurried through the rest of my errands, eager to be back home. This business with Lestrade and Gregson had me worried. There was something missing, something about this smuggling case that Lestrade hadn't mentioned.

Holmes was smoking when I returned, and Gregson was napping. Lestrade-

Lestrade was perusing one of my medical texts.

He started as I entered the room, and guiltily set the book aside. "Sorry." He said quickly. "I-" I glanced at the book; it was a guide to basic first aid.

"It's fine." I said lightly, joining him on the couch. "I didn't know you read." He colored.

"I'm a slow reader." He admitted. "And I'm always busy." He picked the book back up and tapped a finger lightly against the cover. "I don't get the opportunity to read much other than reports and articles in the paper than involve the Yard."

I had once spent a week with the Lestrades. I remembered now the newspaper clippings that Elisabeth left stacked neatly beside her husband's breakfast plate, and how quiet he had been at the table as he sorted through them.

"Your wife sent you this." I offered him the package and Hopkins' note. "And Hopkins sent you a reply."

He went through the message first, and then proceeded to unwrap the package his wife had prepared for him. He went through the contents quickly before rebundling the objects and setting them aside.

I looked over at Holmes. "Waiting for him to finish thinking?" I asked, and the Inspector nodded. "It might be a while." I advised him with a smile. "You might as well get some reading done while you wait."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

A knock sounded downstairs, and a few minutes later Inspector Hopkins was shown up. "Sorry, sir." He said quickly to Lestrade. "But something's come up, and the Superintendent insisted you be there."

Lestrade nodded briskly and set aside his book. "All right." He stood and joined the other man.

"We'll keep an eye on Gregson." I offered.

"Thank you." He said. "I'll return when I can." He followed Hopkins out of the room, still favoring his left foot a bit.

I looked over Gregson's hands again, and he looked grateful for the distraction. He was worried about Lestrade being out there too. I wondered at this, that two men who could personally barely stand each other had learned to work together, and rather well, I might add, and even worry about and look out for each other.

Eventually Mrs. Hudson brought dinner, and demonstrated her own prowess in observation, for part of it was soup, and instead of a bowl Gregson was offered a rather large mug full of the delicious stuff. He colored slightly but accepted the mug gratefully.

I wondered, as he was quick to empty his mug, when the last time he had eaten was. With this thought in mind, I stepped out into the hall and inquired as to whether there was any more soup available.

Mrs. Hudson looked scandalized. "Of course there's more." She informed me. "Those two look as if they hadn't eaten properly in days. I'll bring some more right up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." She returned my smile and darted back down to the kitchen.

"Where is Lestrade?" Holmes had come out of his thoughts, and was looking rather concerned.

"He was called out, with sincere apologies, by Inspector Hopkins." I replied. Holmes scowled.

"He should not be out, not with this gang looking for him." He complained. "He should know that."

"I think he did." I offered. "And I think Hopkins knew it as well. Neither one of them seemed particularly pleased with the situation."

Holmes decided to stop down by the Yard and see if he could find anything in the official reports of the case in '76. I assured him that I would be here to keep an eye on Gregson, and that I had slipped my revolver into my pocket, and saw him to the door.

"This is serious, business, Watson." Holmes said before he left. "Gregson and Lestrade do not frighten easily. If they take enough alarm at a threat to be hiding, then you can bet there is plenty of trouble afoot."

"I'll be on guard." I assured Holmes.

My friend returned several hours later, and reacted with alarm to the fact that Lestrade was still gone. I tried to remind him that the man had been called out on a case and would probably be absent for a while; it did little to ease his concerns, and I was somewhat worried myself.

But at last Lestrade checked in, looking a bit worn but physically uninjured. He took a seat with considerable relief, and looked to Holmes as if anticipating some sort of flurry of action.

Holmes was seated in his armchair. "The reports were rather vague and lacking in detail." He criticized.

Lestrade shrugged. "Gregson and I were too full of drugs for our injuries to give much in the way of information." He admitted. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure _what_ I told them happened."

Holmes frowned. "You told them that after you were captured you were locked in the basement of a building down by the docks and abused for the sheer entertainment of it." He informed Lestrade, who went still. "I believe you went on to explain that a rather large fellow seemed to have perfected the art of breaking a person's foot just a little at a time in such a way that not only would it cause agonizing pain, but they would also be left lame for the rest of their life and that you were lucky he hadn't gotten any further in this exercise than he did.

"There was also a note to the effect that you seemed to be rather loose tongued under the effects of morphine." He added, and I wondered if he had noticed that Lestrade had been growing steadily paler and now wore an expression rather reminiscent of an animal that suddenly finds itself trapped. "And that you should be watched for signs of both lameness and psychological damage as a result of being tortured."

Gregson was glaring at Holmes; he had certainly noticed Lestrade's reaction. He didn't flinch as Holmes shifted his focus from Lestrade to him.

"Your report confirmed that you were both captured, that Lestrade's foot had been broken, and that you had both been beaten rather severely and deprived of both food and water. It was noted that someone had been in the process of removing the skin from your right forearm, and that you should also be watched for signs of psychological turmoil."

Gregson looked as if he would be demanding how much more detail Holmes wanted, if only he were capable. Lestrade looked as if he were going to be ill.

I wondered that these two had survived such an experience with their minds and careers intact. I wondered if they could do so again, and hoped they would not have to.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

There were footsteps on the stairs.

We were all instantly wary. There had been no knock on the door. Lestrade was on his feet in an instant; Gregson followed suit half a second behind him.

"Inspector!" A harsh voice called from the hall. Both men were grim and pale.

They remained silent where they stood, waiting, until the voice spoke again. "Come on, Inspector! We have a friend out here who's dying to see you." There was a burst of vicious laughter, and someone in the hall let out a strangled yelp.

The Inspectors' eyes met, and widened.

Gregson nodded and Lestrade spoke. "Hopkins?" He went to the sitting room door and opened it.

A giant of a man reached forward and grabbed him by the throat. Lestrade didn't even try to resist as the giant entered the room, followed by several other rough looking characters and Hopkins, who was pale and ashamed and being both held and almost supported by one of the men.

Hopkins looked helplessly at Gregson. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see them until-"

"Shut up!" The mammoth turned and backhanded the lad with enough force to knock him half senseless.

Gregson glared at the man, and Lestrade tried to protest around the grip of the giant's other hand. The huge man simply laughed, and tightened his grip on the Inspector.

Holmes straightened up. "Why don't you dispense with the displays of violence and explain why you have invaded our home?" He regarded the behemoth coldly.

The man grinned, and laughed again. "All right." He said easily, and shoved Lestrade, who was starting to suffer from a lack of air, roughly away. Lestrade went down, and for the moment kept his impromptu seat on the floor, gasping for breath.

"All right, Mr. Holmes." The giant said cheerfully. "To business. We have a bit of unfinished business with these Inspectors that we need to attend to, and we don't really care to remove anyone who tries to get in our way, if you get my drift."

"Ah." Holmes replied. "Well, then. I would suggest that perhaps Inspector Hopkins is in little condition to 'get in your way.' Perhaps you might set him on the couch there, and let Doctor Watson here have a look at him."

The huge man thought about this. "Okay." He said gamely. "But I'm warning you, try anything and my buddy here will blow your precious doctor's head off." He gestured towards the man who was now taking considerable pleasure from the act of drawing his firearm and aiming it at me.

"I'm not about to contribute to Watson's death." Holmes assured the man.

The giant nodded, and the man who was holding onto Hopkins shoved him roughly in the direction of the couch.

Hopkins stumbled, and bit back a cry of pain. I reacted instantly, and caught the lad and helped him to the couch. I looked him over, keeping part of my attention on what was going on in the room around us.

The lad had been dealt a blow from behind, to knock him unconsciousness I gathered, and treated rather roughly. He was bruised, and had sprained his wrist, but other than that and the guilt that was radiating from him, the lad was fine, just unsteady.

"I'm sorry." He muttered again.

Holmes was again speaking with the brute that had invaded our home. "Are you going to kill them outright this time?" He asked, his tone curious. I wondered what on earth my friend thought he was doing.

Gregson was staring at Holmes as if he had lost his mind. Lestrade was still trying to catch his breath. The giant was considering Holmes' question.

"They have managed to escape both times you tried to draw it out." Holmes pointed out. "Of course, in their current state, they might not be able to put up much of a fight." He looked thoughtful.

The giant seemed a bit confused by the conversation he was having with Holmes. "What are you suggesting, exactly?" He asked.

Holmes shrugged. "I am merely presenting your options, but if I may be so bold, the last time we got blood on anything in the sitting room, our landlady was less than pleased."

The giant looked amused. "Well, what would you suggest, then? Most ways I know of killing people are a bloody mess."

Holmes pursed his lips as he thought this over. He looked over at poor Lestrade, who was still breathing hard and had not gotten up. "I suppose, as big as you are, you could strangle them to death." He offered. "You seemed to be doing an excellent job of that earlier."

The huge man seemed to like this idea. He looked over at Lestrade, then suddenly suspicious, back at Holmes. "And you aren't going to cause any trouble while I do it?" He asked skeptically.

Holmes shrugged. "Could I really stop you if I tried?" He asked. Something in the way he said that made me wary. "Besides, if you strangle him, he can't cry out and I don't have to worry about the landlady coming in on this mess.

Mrs. Hudson.

Where _was_ she? She would normally have brought tea up by this time.

She was used to us finding trouble, would she have started to come up, overheard this, and gone for help? It was entirely possible. Holmes could see out the window from where he stood; he might have seen the woman slip out.

Holmes caught my eye for a fraction of a second, and gave a barely perceptible nod. Gregson caught the action, and looked over at Lestrade.

The giant missed all this, and shrugged. "Well, I'll just take care of them now, and we'll be on our merry way, Mr. Holmes." He said cheerfully, and went for Lestrade.

Lestrade threw himself into the brute before the man could lay a hand on him. Holmes launched himself at the man with the gun.

A second later Gregson threw himself at the members of the group that were a bit slow to recover from their surprise. He was, however, seriously outnumbered. I assured myself that Hopkins would be fine and went to his aid.

I did not expect Hopkins to follow my lead.

For the next few minutes the sitting room was a jumble of bodies, a chaos of arms and legs and fists and uttered oaths and violence.

And suddenly the police had burst in and a number of Constables joined the fight. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Inspector Bradstreet pull a man off Hopkins before dragging the battered lad out of the fray.

A few more minutes settled the fracas, and bruised and sweaty Constables were cuffing bruised and angry ruffians and dragging them outside. Bradstreet was threatening to kill Hopkins himself if the young man so much as moved where he was sitting while simultaneously trying to drag Lestrade and Gregson off of the behemoth.

Lestrade was uttering a string of profanities at the man, and Gregson actually spat in his face before he allowed Bradstreet to pull him away. Once he had gotten those two taken care of, he turned his attention to Holmes and myself.

"You two alright?" He asked. "Your landlady sent a message saying you needed some help."

"We're fine." I assured him, and went to see to a few Constables who had gotten the worst of the brawl. "You arrived just in time."

Bradstreet shrugged. "Sit down, Lestrade." He snapped. "We're perfectly capable of getting these sorry louts down to the Yard without your help."

Lestrade glared at him, but was breathing too heavily to argue with the other Inspector. Gregson was starting to calm down, slowly. Holmes was watching the removal of the giant and his companions with disdain.

Hopkins was trying to apologize again. "I'm sorry. They came up behind me, I don't know why I didn't see them."

"Didn't want you to." Lestrade gasped, his attention now on the younger Inspector. "Didn't realize they were following us either. Not your fault." Gregson nodded in agreement, but Hopkins was less than convinced.

Holmes frowned as the last of the bunch was cleared away, and we were left with the four Inspectors. "They know where you are." He said, finally. "And they came after you in broad daylight. We must put a stop to these goings on tonight."

Bradstreet looked concerned. "What are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?" He asked.

Holmes looked towards Gregson. "Do you know where they are hiding?" Reluctantly, the Inspector nodded. "I suggest that we move in on them tonight." Holmes said.

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged a look that I couldn't quite fathom. Finally, Gregson nodded, and Lestrade sighed. "All right, Mr. Holmes. Just give us time to get everything ready."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

Gregson glared around the empty room with impotent fury.

The smuggling gang had disappeared. The entire building was empty. We had burst in, ready for trouble, only to find that there was none to be had.

We proceeded to search every inch of the building. Our efforts proved to be in vain. There was nothing there to find.

Lestrade was disassembling the troops, choosing to keep busy rather than allow himself to dwell on this most recent development. He was limping again, I noticed, but now was probably not the best time to say anything about it.

Holmes was disappointed, but was going over every room, hoping for some small clue or sign to shed some light on what had happened here.

Lestrade sent poor Hopkins home, then made the mistake of trying to do the same with Gregson. Gregson collared the smaller Inspector and looked ready to hit him.

Bradstreet immediately placed himself between the two men. "Go home, Gregson." He said firmly. "I'm sending Lestrade home as soon as I can take the time to make sure he gets there."

Gregson was looking rebellious. "I can make sure Inspector Lestrade gets home." I offered.

Bradstreet looked relieved. "All right, then." He said, turning to give Lestrade a look. "Go on, the paperwork can wait for morning."

Lestrade snarled something under his breath, but didn't put up any argument. "I'll meet you back at Baker Street." I told Holmes, who nodded absently.

I called for a cab, and the three of us climbed in; Gregson's home was on the way to Lestrade's from here.

The ride was quiet. The Inspectors sat and brooded over the night's failure. I left them alone, relieved that at least they were going home.

Gregson departed without so much as a backward glance at us. Lestrade didn't utter a word for the rest of the trip, but insisted on paying for the fair.

Elisabeth Lestrade looked her husband over and announced that he was going straight to bed. "Cup of tea before you go, John?" She asked as she let her husband in.

"No, thank you." I declined politely. The woman would be busy enough seeing to her husband. "I should be getting home. His foot's bothering him." I added, and received a half hearted glare from Lestrade for my troubles.

The woman nodded, and ordered her husband to go wash up. "I'll see to it." She said to me. "Thank you." She added. "You've been the reason he's made it home alive more than once."

I shrugged off the praise. "It's the least I could do for a member of Scotland Yard." I said.

Elisabeth smiled sadly. "Good night, John." She said.

"Good night." I replied, and turned and headed for home.


	9. Chapter 9

I awoke in the night to a pounding downstairs.

Someone was beating on the door. I dragged myself out of bed and listened for sounds of trouble as I hurried to make myself presentable.

"Good heavens, Inspector!" I heard the alarm in Mrs. Hudson's voice and went ahead and finished dressing. I had a feeling I would regret just throwing my dressing gown on and going downstairs.

Holmes was coming out of his room as I hit the stairs, hastily dressed and worried as well. I could hear someone crying as Mrs. Hudson brought our guests up.

Lestrade was practically carrying the woman that was sobbing hysterically into his shoulder up the stairs. His arm was around her in a gesture that at one time I would once have thought was surprisingly familiar. Over the years, however, I had come to recognize it as the standard comfort-and-support position Lestrade and many others adapted for use in dealing with distraught Yarders' wives.

Lestrade looked as if he hadn't slept. "Sorry to disturb you." He apologized as we all gathered in the sitting room. "Gregson's gone."

"What?" I demanded. "We dropped him off-"

"Somebody came in after we left." Lestrade said shortly. When he turned his attention to the woman beside him, his voice was gentle. "Come on, Melissa. Let the Doctor see your arm."

The woman pressed herself closer to Lestrade's side. He winced, but his voice remained even. "You can trust Doctor Watson." When she still hesitated, he persisted. "Tobias wouldn't want you to ignore that you're hurt, and you know he'll blame me if you aren't taken care of."

The woman sniffled, and let me look at her arm.

"What happened?" I asked. It was broken, no doubt about that.

"Someone burst in and caught Gregson off guard. Knocked him out. She went to his defense and the bloody-" Lestrade caught himself, "She passed out and when she woke up, the man had taken off with her husband."

Lestrade lapsed into silence while I tended to the poor woman's injury. He sat with her, his arm still comfortingly around her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do so.

And I supposed to him, it was. Just as it was for Gregson or Jones or any of the other Yarders who had dealt with the wives of the men they worked with. As if it were the least they could do to make up for the fact that they themselves were alive and well when the woman's husband was not.

He didn't try to reassure the woman as I finished with her arm and she began crying into his shoulder again. He didn't tell her there was still a chance, or promise that they would find him. He just sat and let her cry herself out. And shot a glare at Holmes, when he would have pressed for more information, that was fierce enough to actually get my friend to sit silent and wait.

Gregson's wife eventually cried herself into an exhausted and uneasy sleep. Lestrade didn't blink as her head fell to rest against his chest, nor did he seem inclined to move her into a more appropriate position.

"I want to see the house." Holmes finally said.

"Of course." Lestrade replied quickly, but his eyes strayed to Gregson's wife. "I'm not sure she should be left alone." He considered. "I'd like to send for my Lizzie…"

"Every second counts, Lestrade." Holmes reminded the man.

"I know." The Inspector replied. "But Gregson could already be dead, and I'm not about to leave his wife alone tonight."

"I can go for your wife." I offered. "Holmes, we can catch up with you, if you don't want to wait."

Holmes nodded. "I will see you two there."

"Go in through the front door." Lestrade warned Holmes. "Constable Adams is keeping an eye out for trouble."

For the second time that night I found myself knocking on the Lestrades' door. It took less time than I would have thought for the woman to answer the door with a worried expression she could not quite hide.

"Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Elisabeth." I apologized. She brushed off the apology and invited me in.

"What is it?" She asked. "When I heard Melissa at the door…"

"Gregson's been taken." I didn't mince words. Elisabeth Lestrade would not have thanked me for it. "His wife is at Baker Street with a broken arm. We need to try to find him, but in the meantime she doesn't need to be left alone. Your husband was hoping…"

"That I would come and sit with her." She finished. "Give me a few minutes, and we can go. She ushered me into the sitting room and disappeared upstairs.

It was ten minutes later that she reappeared, dressed for going out, but barely. She was hurrying, fully aware that every minute that passed increased the likelihood that Gregson would be dead before we found him. I also noticed the cane she was now carrying with her, but did not ask.

Elisabeth didn't bat an eye when she entered the sitting room and found someone else's wife asleep in her husband's arms. She merely nodded at him and the two gracefully maneuvered the woman out of his arms and into hers.

Lestrade leaned forward to kiss his wife on the forehead and murmur a thank you. She smiled up at him for a second before her expression became stern. "Take that with you." She pointed to the cane.

Lestrade frowned, but didn't argue with her about it, not even when she added, "And use it!" as we headed out the door.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	10. Chapter 10

I was surprised and just a bit worried to see that Lestrade was indeed making use of the cane his wife had insisted he take with him.

He caught my glance, and sighed. "I'm not about to argue with Lizzie." He declared. "And I haven't been able to stay off it."

"How serious is it?" I asked. If only it weren't so late. A cab would be welcome, but the hour practically guaranteed there would be none.

Lestrade didn't answer right away. "It depends on how much longer this lasts." He finally said. "Once this is over, I can actually justify getting off of it for a few days. Until then, I can't really leave Gregson to face this by himself." He eyed the cane with distaste. "In the meantime, my foot is killing me. If someone knocked _me_ out right now I might just thank him for the temporary relief being unconscious would offer."

We had come a long way for Lestrade to actually be able to admit something like that to me. "Hopefully Holmes will have some answers by the time we get there." I suggested.

"One can only hope." He replied tersely.

Holmes had already examined the house and found a trail by the time we reached Gregson's home. He was waiting for us rather impatiently, and didn't remember to even acknowledge our arrival before he took off with considerable speed.

I groaned inwardly, and sneaked a glance at Lestrade, but he was resigned and determined to keep up with Holmes, at least, as much as anyone could keep up with my friend.

"Gregson was still alive when he was taken." Holmes called back to us. "I suspect he may have been taken as bait."

"He wants both of them." I realized. "Gregson and Lestrade. He's hoping Lestrade will follow this trail and into his trap."

"Exactly." Holmes agreed.

"So?" Lestrade grunted.

"So we give him what he wants." Holmes replied. "You will take the lead, and when they take you, Watson and I will follow at a distance. When we find Gregson, we'll act!"

"Assuming either of us is still in any shape to help you and the Doctor." Lestrade pointed out. "You should call for backup."

"We don't have time." Holmes insisted. "Gregson's position becomes more precarious with every second that goes by."

Lestrade sighed. "All right, Holmes." He agreed wearily. We continued in silence.

"We're close now." Holmes said some time later. "Take the lead, Lestrade."

Holmes and I drew back, and slipped into the shadows. I separated from Lestrade with a guilty conscience, for although I knew the man was fully capable I could not help but worry about his chances against a gang of smugglers that had nearly cost him and Gregson their lives once before, especially in his current condition.

It was not long before the trail, which was so obvious that Lesrade had not the slightest difficulty in following it in the dark, led into a dark alley, and to someone's cellar door.

They moved quickly, and were upon Lestrade before he knew it. One of them delivered a swift blow to the back of his head before he could so much as turn, and he went down. The two men opened the cellar door and dragged the unconscious Inspector inside.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance; his grim expression undoubtedly matched my own. We stepped forward out of the shadows, and approached the cellar door.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

After a moment spent listening, Holmes lifted the door just enough for me to slip inside. I in turn held it while he joined me, then let the door slide shut.

It was dark in the cellar, and dank. A stench lingered in the air, and I had to stifle a cough. The only light in the room came from the far corner. I eased my revolver out of my pocket as I made out several dark shapes near the lamp.

Somebody laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Can't even scream." Someone else jeered. I wondered just what they were doing to Gregson.

Holmes had picked up Lestrade's cane outside; he weighed it silently in his hands, judging if it would make a suitable weapon.

Someone cried out; my heart failed me as I recognized the sound.

Lestrade.

More laughter.

I had had enough. So had Holmes. I raised my revolver and took aim. Holmes cleared his throat, and five men spun around. One went for his own gun.

He never had a chance. I fired, and he slumped to the ground. Holmes leapt into the fray, and I followed less than a second behind.

I felt a sudden stab in my arm, and realized at least one of them had a knife. I shouted the warning to Holmes, and downed the villain with a right hook to his jaw.

Holmes stiffened in alarm, and tackled me just in time to prevent me from taking a bullet. I drew my own revolver as Holmes flattened against the ground and out of my way and aimed into the darkness for the other man.

The shot fired, and a second later I heard a thud. It was over.

We hurried to the corner where the Inspectors were huddled. Holmes bent over Lestrade and nearly had his knee broken for his troubles when Lestrade swore and kicked out with his good foot.

"Back up, Holmes." I said softly. "Give them a minute."

Holmes nodded. "I'll see to these other 'gentlemen.'" He said quickly.

I knelt cautiously just out of Lestrade's reach.

"Lestrade?" I asked. "Gregson?"

Gregson stirred, slightly. Lestrade swore at me. I swallowed back my fears and tried again. "You're safe, Lestrade. Holmes is securing the lot of them now."

Still no reply.

"Lestrade, this is Doctor Watson." I said as calmly as possible. "I need to make sure we can move you. Please don't fight me." I moved forward slowly, trying not to come off as threatening.

This time Lestrade didn't lash out. He had a lump on the back of his head from where he had been hit, but it did not appear life-threatening. My fingers searched for further injury in the darkness, and I kept my touch light, for it was almost a given that there would have been bruises gained from this venture.

He gasped and bit back a moan as I reached his leg, and recoiled from my touch. I left it alone for the moment, and turned my attention to Gregson, who was eyeing me with a little interest by now.

Gregson always had been the better patient. Even now, half conscious and with a multitude of bruises and several slashes cut deep into his back, he didn't so much as flinch from my touch.

"We need to get them out of here." I said as Holmes returned from his task. "I'll be able to see better outside, and this place certainly isn't somewhere they need to linger. Can you get Gregson?" I asked.

Holmes nodded. "Lestrade might give you some trouble, Watson-"

"I know it. But I've dealt with difficult patients before." I assured my friend. "And Lestrade at least seems to have recognized me." I turned to address Gregson. "Holmes is going to get you out of here. Let him help you."

Holmes moved towards Gregson carefully. "Watch his back, Holmes." I cautioned, then turned my attentions back to Lestrade.

"Can you sit up, Lestrade?" I asked, trying to sound encouraging. "The floor's rather cold. I'm going to be right here, in case you need help."

The Inspector let me ease him into a sitting position, though he let out a low moan when the movement jostled his leg. He was gasping by the time I had gotten him upright.

I stifled a sigh. "All right, Inspector. We need to get out of here. I'm going to help you stand, and I need to put my arm across your back here."

It took forever to get him up, and when we finally managed it another moan forced its way past Lestrade's lips and he fell against me. I suddenly found myself supporting all of the smaller man's weight.

I waited for a few minutes. "Can you stand on your right leg, Lestrade?" I asked. "I need your help if we're going to get out of here."

It was a long, painful process crossing the cellar and managing the cellar stairs, and it was made longer by the fact that Lestrade kept stumbling and I had to keep catching him and waiting for him to take his weight back onto his right leg so we could continue. By the time we made it outside, both of us were soaked in sweat and breathing heavily.

Holmes left me with the Inspectors and went to find someone to arrest the men we had left in the cellar and take them back to Scotland Yard. I worried over Gregson first, since he was actually letting me touch his injuries and I had no desire to try to examine Lestrade's leg without someone else here to hold him down.

When Holmes finally returned it was with a bleary eyed Jones and several constables, but Jones wasted no time in seeing to the men Holmes had left subdued in the basement. As the last of them was escorted from the cellar, Gregson looked up and pulled on my sleeve. Then he pointed.

It took me a second. "That's him?" I asked. "The gang leader?" Gregson nodded, relief in his eyes, and promptly passed out. I finished doing what I could for the man, then turned to Holmes.

"I need your help." I said. "Lestrade won't let me anywhere near his leg."

Holmes looked apprehensive. "What do you want me to do?"

"I need you to hold him down." I said grimly.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: Sorry folks, for some reason I thought I'd already posted this chapter and finished this up. I didn't mean to keep you all hanging. A thousand apologies.

* * *

For a moment I thought Lestrade would throw Holmes off of him, but my friend held fast and admonished the Inspector to be still as I examined the man's leg. I winced as I examined it; his leg was broken.

I explained to Holmes the nature of the injury and that I need to set the bone, for both his and Lestrade's benefit. Holmes braced himself, and Lestrade tensed, and I set to work.

Lestrade somehow managed to bite back a scream, and went limp as I commented with false cheer, "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" and noted that I wasn't fooling anyone.

He didn't bother moving as I then examined his foot, but lay there gasping for breath. Holmes remained in position, just in case, but he needn't have bothered. Lestrade's breath caught as I examined his foot for any new breaks, but that was all, and I was relieved to find that while his foot was badly bruised and swollen there were no new fractures to be found.

I was horrified to realize that Holmes earlier' remark had been true. Whoever had originally broken his foot had done it a little at a time, applying enough pressure each time to cause the bone to fracture, and in such a way that when the bones healed, they would indeed heal crooked.

Lestrade _had_ been lucky. A few more fractures would have been all it would have taken to cause enough permanent damage to interfere with his chosen profession, and if that second raid had not prevented the job on his foot from being finished, the man would have been left lame.

As it was, he would need to stay off of it for a while if he wanted to avoid further injury. Fortunately, he wouldn't be able to be up for some time anyway, thanks to his leg.

Holmes crawled off Lestrade as I finished applying a hasty splint, and the Inspector let me help him up again. Holmes roused Gregson and dragged him to his feet and headed for the street in hopes of flagging down a cab as morning dawned.

Gregson lost what little color he had left when we entered the sitting room at Baker Street and his wife nearly tackled him. Nonetheless, he wrapped his arms around her and didn't mention the pain she was causing by flinging her own arms around his chest and back and holding him in a grip that seemed meant to ward off death.

Elisabeth watched me maneuver her husband through the door and over to the couch where she had been sitting with the other woman before our arrival. She was quiet as Lestrade all but fell onto the couch with a hiss, and when he leaned back she carefully maneuvered his injured left leg so his foot rested in her lap.

The man's jaw clenched with the effort not to cry out, and Elisabeth was still. When his jaw finally relaxed, she carefully worked at removing his shoe.

Jones looked more awake as he joined us at Baker Street and tried to figure out what had happened tonight. It took almost three hours for Holmes and I to explain everything; Jones had not been aware of anything having to do with this smuggling gang, and Lestrade and Gregson were in no condition to give any input of their own.

By the end of the week the worst of the gang had been rounded up, and Gregson's voice had recovered enough for him to join Lestrade and testify in court. Those captured were convicted, and sentenced, and Gregson and Lestrade celebrated by nearly passing out together in the hallway after the trial had finally come to a close.

Both men ended up needing time off, though Gregson would probably be able to return before Lestrade was even capable of standing on his own two feet again. When this looked as if it might cause trouble with the Superintendent, Inspector Hopkins opened his mouth and spent fifteen minutes listing every time one of the two men had been called in when off duty or injured or ill in the past year alone, and threatened to continue on to the next year before Bradstreet groaned and pointed out that the other Inspectors would be perfectly able, and willing, to pick up the slack.

In the end Superintendent Marshall retreated with the proclamation that the two should take as much time as they needed for a complete recovery, but even as Hopkins and Bradstreet grinned triumphantly I wondered how long it would last.

Scotland Yard was not a place that allowed its employees to remain idle for long.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


End file.
